


Why He Even Brings The Thunder

by RedBerrie



Series: Passtimes [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Is a Little Shit, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Thomas Is Having None Of It, BDSM, Belts, Dom Thomas Jefferson, Dom/sub Play, Feminization, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spanking, Sub Alexander Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7490184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBerrie/pseuds/RedBerrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Oh, the shoe fits? The shoe fits, does it? Turn around and bend over; I'll show you where the shoe fits!”</i>
</p><p>Alexander Hamilton is a little shit sometimes. But that's okay, because Thomas Jefferson knows just how to calm him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why He Even Brings The Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> So ... apparently I'm a Jamilton writer, now.

“Oh, the shoe fits? The shoe fits, does it? Turn around and bend over; I'll _show you where the shoe fits!_ ”

In retrospect, that line wasn't Deputy Mayor Alexander Hamilton's finest hour. In fact, if the shade of purple its recipient turned was any indication, it may have even been a mistake. Alex had a fleeting moment of amusement at how First Deputy Mayor Thomas Jefferson's face now matched his gaudy button-down, before returning to trying to decide if he should backpedal or just flat-out apologize.

He didn't get the chance to do either. “Enough!” Mayor Washington barked. “I expected better from you two, damn it!” There was a snort somewhere down the conference table (Alex suspected Police Chief Knox), but a look from Washington was all it took to inform the rest of the officials assembled that this was not a moment for levity. Alexander agreed; it was rare for the Mayor to curse, so the use of even a mild word meant that things were dire indeed.

“We're done for the day,” Washington announced suddenly. “Everyone, go home and enjoy your weekend. We'll try again Monday. Hamilton, a word.”

That last was slipped in so smoothly that Alex almost missed it. He swallowed the knot in his stomach as the other attendees filed out, and ignored the sneer Jefferson shot in his direction on his way out.

Washington took the time to gather his papers, not even looking up until they were alone. “You want to tell me what's wrong?” he demanded, words soft but voice harsh.

Alex swallowed again. “I'm sorry, sir; I was out of line,” he admitted. “It won't happen again.”

“Damn right, it won't,” Washington hissed, and Alexander jumped at the second curse word in so few minutes. “Son, I don't know why you've been so on edge these past few days, but it has to stop. Come Monday, I expect you in this office ready to cooperate. Have I made myself clear?”

Alex pushed down the automatic protest of the pet name, and instead focused on his gratitude that this dressing-down had been in private. “Yessir,” he said, making his voice as contrite as he could.

Washington gave him one more long, lingering look that Alex was sure made his men sit up and take notice when the man served in the Gulf War. Alex, who had done a tour in Iraq a decade ago, privately referred to the look as his General Face, and tried not to be resentful at the way it made his spine straighten and his chin jut up. “Dismissed,” Washington finally stated, and Alex forced himself to relax instead of marching out of the conference room.

* * *

Apparently, Washington wasn't the only one who had noticed how tense Alex had been feeling the past few days. As he was gathering his things, Alex's phone chirped at an incoming text. He turned the screen on, and felt his stomach flip in an odd mixture of dread and anticipation when he saw the message.

> _**FROM: PURPLE FUCKER**  
>  Dinner. My house. Tomorrow. 7 oclock_

He snorted in amusement. They didn't have time for this. The budget, the subject of that day's disastrous meeting, had a due date that was rapidly approaching. Alex had already packed his work laptop and had planned on spending all weekend calculating and recalculating and balancing and getting into email wars and just generally showing up Monday was a leg up on the competition. _That's probably what this is about_ , a petty part of his brain said. _He's trying to sabotage your work._

He opened the messaging app to refuse the offer.

> _**TO: PURPLE FUCKER**  
>  Ill be there_

* * *

It had all started accidentally enough. Alexander, frustrated with his work and his coworkers and his wallet and his life in general, had been seeking a release from the tension the only way he knew how. He had sneaked down to the seldom-used basement, entered one of the single-stall bathrooms down there, and threw the lock with one hand while he was unbuttoning his suit pants with the other. He had his cock out in record time and was masturbating as quickly as possible when he heard the door handle rattle. He had turned just in time to realize that he hadn't locked the door _all the way_ when it bust open to reveal Thomas Jefferson sauntering in.

Jefferson had taken one look at what Alex had in his hands and instinctively commanded, “drop that!”

Both men had been completely shocked when Alex had instantly obeyed.

Jefferson had considered a moment before entering the bathroom, closing the door and locking it all the way this time. He had sauntered over and, watching Alex's face for refusal the entire time, taken Alex's cock in his own hand and stroking it a few times.

The noise that came out of Alex's mouth told both men that the question of consent had been answered.

That encounter had ended with Alexander's pants around his ankles and Alexander himself on his knees. After he had sucked Jefferson off, Jefferson had made him put his hands behind his head while Jefferson himself finished stroking him to completion. The encounter had ended with Alex having the best orgasm he had experienced since college.

Both men had been surprised again when Alexander showed up for work the next day relaxed and mellow. The peace had lasted an entire two weeks, in fact.

When he had started to feel the anxiety creeping up his chest again, he had known exactly where to go.

* * *

It became a pastime.

Bitter rivals at the office and everywhere else, all that changed in the bedroom. There, Jefferson exercised his need to dominate and order others, but also his need to care for something. (He had once commented that Alex was at least cheaper than a dog.) Alexander, on the other hand, could turn his brain off and submit to his ingrained desire to please, as well as an embarrassing pleasure at being humiliated.

They had met at Alex's flat once, only for Jefferson to turn his nose up at the ratty apartment and refuse to step foot in it ever again.

After that, they usually met at a hotel. Jefferson always paid for a night (insisting that it was his right as the Dom; but Alex secretly wondered whether it was that, his instinct to take care of his sub, or just plain old throwing his wealth in Alex's face).

Only occasionally did they meet at Jefferson's house just outside the city, usually when Alexander had been especially tense. There, Jefferson could take his time and work the smaller man over until he sobbed for mercy, and no one had to worry about a concerned neighbor calling the cops.

So when Alex pulled his Honda Civic into Jefferson's driveway, he didn't know what to expect. The thought simultaneously thrilled and terrified him.

* * *

A servant of some sort answers the door, and Alex is reminded that Jefferson's salary as first deputy mayor isn't even the largest part of the man's income. The man shows Alex in and escorts him to the dining room, where Jefferson is reading a paper and sipping on a glass of wine.

A female servant refills his glass, then goes to stand at the wall. The male servant who escorted him in joins her there.

Jefferson doesn't even look up as Alex enters the room. “I'm very disappointed in you, Alexander,” he tells the newspaper. Alex feels a fluttering of dread in his stomach at the stern tone the other man employs. “Your behavior has been increasingly more-and-more erratic.”

That's the second time in as many days that he's been told that he's been unusually tense and on-edge recently. There must be something to that, because without his permission, his mouth responds with, “Which one? Increasingly erratic, or more-and-more erratic?”

It's a mistake, and he knows it the moment the words leave his mouth. So do the two servants. Standing off to the side, they shift on their feet a little. It might be his imagination, but he's pretty sure the man _smirked_ at him.

Jefferson, for his part, doesn't even flinch. “Strip,” he commands Alex, still not looking up from the paper.

Alexander is filled with horror, and more than a little arousal. His sessions with Jefferson have always been private. Surely he can't mean for him to bare himself in front of an audience?

When several seconds pass and no sounds of clothing being removed are forthcoming, Jefferson sighs and examines Alex over the rim of his paper. “I'm sorry,” he says sarcastically. “Did I stutter, Kate?”

“No, sir,” the female servant answers; and this time Alex is _sure_ he sees a smirk on her face. “Plain as the nose on your face.”

“ _Now_ , Hamilton,” and there's something almost magical in the commanding tone Jefferson uses in times like these, because Alex has his sweater almost off before he even realizes that his arms are moving.

His undershirt joins the sweater, followed by his shoes and socks, and then his jeans. He stands there, clad only in his boxers, and silently appeals to Jefferson for mercy. “ _Now_ ,” is the only response he gets, and the boxers join the pile of clothes on the floor.

Now _both_ servants are smirking at him. He can't honestly blame them. He's already half-hard, just from Jefferson's commands and the humiliation of the situation.

“The safeword for tonight is 'sparrow',” Jefferson informs him.

“Sparrow,” Alex obediently repeats.

Jefferson nods, pleased. “Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the other chair at the table.

Alex obeys, sitting at the polished mahogany table and mourning that there isn't so much as a tablecloth to hide himself with. Immediately, the woman comes over and fills his wineglass.

“Spread your legs,” he hears, and opens his legs. “Farther.” His legs are so far apart now that he's basically straddling the chair.

“We are going to have dinner now,” Jefferson states. “And you are going to keep your legs open the entire time, like the disgusting whore we both know you are.” Alex swallows, but nods. He pretends not to notice that he's gotten even harder from the insult.

What follows is the most bizarre meal that he's ever had. The food is delicious, of course; and Jefferson has insisted on a full three-course meal. But the upholstered seat of his chair feels odd against his bare ass and ballsack. He keeps adjusting himself, closing his legs in the process, then remembering and spreading them again. And the servants, he can tell, are enjoying this far too much.

At one point, the man (whose name, he has learned, is Miguel) comes and places a salad in front of him. He then looks Alex up and down and has the gall to state, “he's very pretty, sir,” to Jefferson, before running a finger over Alex's bare abs and retreating to the side of the room. Jefferson seems incredibly amused by this exchange. So, unfortunately, does Alex's dick.

By the time dessert is being whisked away, Alexander feels more on edge than he had before.

Jefferson finally puts down his newspaper, and skewers Alex with a look that definitely could not be called kind. “How many times did you disobey and close your legs?” he demands.

Alex swallows nervously; he hadn't been counting. “Four times, sir,” he says as assuredly as he can.

Jefferson says nothing, just looks at Kate.

“I counted six times, sir,” she informs him, the smirk back.

“That's how many I counted, as well,” Jefferson says, and rises. Alex feels his stomach flutter as Jefferson removes his belt; the thing is obviously real leather, and has to be at least three inches wide. “Do you remember your safeword?”

“Sparrow,” Alex repeats immediately.

“Good,” Jefferson replies. “On the table.”

Alex doesn't hesitate, but drapes his torso over the newly-cleared table.

Jefferson snaps the belt a few times experimentally, and the sound jolts straight through Alex's body. “Six times,” Jefferson muses. “Double that for lying to me, and double that for your mouth earlier. That makes … twenty-four lashes.” He's standing behind Alex now, and reaches out to almost experimentally massage the meat in Alex's asscheeks. “Count out loud.”

Alex knows what that means. He sucks in a breath, and waits for the inevitable.

The belt hits Alex exactly in his left cheek, even wrapping around to the side. Alex can't help but cry out at the pain, then obediently bites out, “one,” and wonders how he's going to do this twenty-three more times.

But Jefferson is a master at this game. He knows how to vary the strikes, so Alex doesn't know where the next one is going to hit or even how hard it will be. He knows how to layer the strikes one on top of the other, until the pain is so intense Alex doesn't think he can take it anymore; then move on to another spot.

It's around stroke sixteen that Alex loses the count. “Fourteen,” he bites out, only to realize that he subtracted one instead of adding one to the ongoing tally. He bites on what sounds suspiciously like a sob when he realizes what that means.

“You dropped the count,” Jefferson states, almost clinically. “What happens when you drop the count?”

Alex feels something spiteful and antagonistic curl up in his chest. “Fuck you,” he gives it words.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, he hears the _whoosh_ of the belt as it wraps itself under his ass to strike him precisely in the balls.

He screams in shock and pain. “Sorry, sir, so sorry, sorry, sir,” he's babbling out.

Jefferson runs the heel of his hand up and down Alex's back soothingly. “I forgive you,” he states. From anyone else, the phrase would be patronizing or just plain false. But this isn't the first time Jefferson has dealt with Alex's spiteful and antagonistic side, and Alex knows that the forgiveness is sincere.

“Do you remember your safeword?” Jefferson asks, almost gently.

“Sparrow,” Alex replies.

“Good. Now; what happens when you drop the count?”

Alex sighs. “We start over,” he admits, then winces at the impact of the belt on his tender ass. “One.”

He takes the remainder of the lashes without incident. By the end, he's unabashedly sobbing, tears making salty streaks through his cheeks.

Jefferson is kneading his back soothingly again, waiting for his sobs to calm. When they do, those long, clever fingers move to stroke his shoulder, his cheek, and finally his lip. Without having to be told, Alex greedily takes the fingers into his mouth and sucks on them. “Good girl,” Jefferson coos, and Alex feels himself preen at the praise.

Jefferson reclaims his fingers, and Alex sighs with contentment. This is what he's been waiting for, the whole reason he came. One of those clever fingers slips itself slowly into his ass, and he can't help the little “ahhh” of pleasure when it strokes his prostate. Jefferson slides his finger in and out, loosening him up, before adding a second finger, then a third. Finally, Alex's heart speeds up when he hears the cellophane of a condom wrapper being torn, followed by the _pop_ of a bottle of lube being opened.

Jefferson slides into him easily, burying himself fully in Alex's ass almost immediately. The burn of Jefferson's balls hitting his sore ass mingles with the pleasure of the sexual act, and Alex is left reeling in bliss. “Thomas,” he breathes out, which earns him a hand snaking around his hip to grasp his dick and start pumping it in time to Jefferson's thrusts.

He's been hard a long time. He's ready almost immediately. “Sir,” he bites out in between moans.

The hand around his dick tightens. “Don't you do it,” Jefferson bites out, making Alex groan in a mixture of pleasure and frustration. “Don't you dare come before me, you little slut.” Jefferson is pumping and thrusting harder now. “Do you hear me, you worthless piece of shit? Don't you – ummh.”

Jefferson thrusts one last time, more a spasm than an actual thrust, and Alex feels himself fill with Jefferson's seed. He whimpers, but is able to control himself.

“Not yet,” Jefferson says, and his hand is back on his dick. “Not yet. Hold out for me. You're doing so good, baby girl. Wait … wait … okay, now.”

He hadn't even gotten the last word out all the way when Alexander came all over that mahogany table.

* * *

When Alex came back to himself, he was in a room that he instantly identified as Jefferson's bedroom. He was laying on his stomach on the bed, one of Jefferson's t-shirts hiked up to reveal his still-bare ass.

To his immense relief, the two servants were nowhere in sight. Having witnesses during a scene was one thing, but aftercare was intensely private.

He buried his face in the fabric of the tee; he always loved it when Jefferson dressed him in his own clothes, loved the feeling of being possessed when he woke up smelling like the other man.

Jefferson himself was rubbing a salve of some sort into the welts on his ass, a process that Alex was indifferent to but Jefferson insisted on. “There you are,” the other man cooed, laying down beside Alex and wrapping himself around the smaller man. “You did so well tonight,” he continued his litany of praise. “You were so pretty, laid out on that table. My pretty baby girl. I just know that Miguel and Kate were jealous. Pretty, pretty girl.”

Alex sighed in contentment as Jefferson peppered his neck with kisses.

* * *

That Monday, the group of officials meeting in the conference room still bickered, still disagreed. But by the end of the day, they had reached a compromise.

Knox and Madison shook their heads at the oddly-subdued Alexander. Washington raised an eyebrow when Alex let a particularly idiotic statement made by an aide slide, a statement that would have had a snarling deputy mayor down the poor man's throat just a few days ago.

Jefferson just smirked.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic just ... happened. I literally opened up a Word document and started writing at 4:00 PM this afternoon (a.k.a., just under seven hours ago). I was going to spend my day off working on a completely different fic. Surprise! You get this instead.
> 
> It should probably come as no surprise that, having been written, proofread, and published within seven hours, this isn't my most polished work. There may be errors, some of them even grammatical ones. A heads-up if you find one would be most appreciated!
> 
> Somewhat inspired by my unhealthy obsession with [TheLittleLion's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlelion) fic "[Want Ad"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6580810)
> 
> I know next to nothing about the BDSM scene. While I tried to be as respectful as possible of what I know about the Dom/sub dynamics, and what a responsible scene looks like, there's a very real chance I fucked up. Please don't hesitate to tell me if I did, and please, PLEASE, don't model your expectations on what BDSM looks like on my fic. Get someone who knows what they're talking about to help you.


End file.
